


What if we were...

by blarghe



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Doctor Anders (Dragon Age), Drinking, Drug Use, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Minor Character Death, Ser Pounce A Lot - Freeform, Tevinter Imperium (Dragon Age), doctor drama and politic, mystery plots, politician dorian pavus, that good angst fluff angst sandwich, writing prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:47:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29812122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blarghe/pseuds/blarghe
Summary: Anders is a resident at a hospital in Minrathous, struggling with his medical school debts, the grueling hours of his job, a haunting whisper in his soul that never rests, and a debilitating crush on his new friend, Dorian.Dorian is a newly appointed Magister in the Tevinter Magisterium, struggling with the expectations of his station, the recent death of his father, the weight of guilt and grief which came with it, and an absolute need of a hug.Who knows where things could go?**Certainly not me; this has been forming out of a series of writing prompts from some lovely people on tumblr. Go ahead and send me one if you like!
Relationships: Anders/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 26
Kudos: 12





	1. In Critical Care

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I caught a bug for this ship and am running away with a little au series over here. Each chapter has come from a writing prompt and I'm trying to keep it going that way. You can send me prompts or just come say hi over here:
> 
> [:)](https://blarrghe.tumblr.com/ask)
> 
> and here are some prompt lists.
> 
> [dialogue prompts](https://blarrghe.tumblr.com/post/642691738334642176/dragon-age-inspired-dialogue-prompts)
> 
> [cliche prompts](https://blarrghe.tumblr.com/post/644294464448446464/bucky-plums-barnes-50-clich%C3%A9-tropes-and-prompts)

From the cliche prompt:

"You’re in a coma and I confess all my feelings only for you to wake up"  
  
(Anders walks in on some angst. A meet cute!)

\----

Anders took a deep breath. With it, the something hissing over his heart settled down to a whisper. The hospital always beset him with inner whispers; not a good feeling, but one that compelled him on, nevertheless. Pediatrics hit the hardest, the injustice of it all, but being there also kept his mind steady. Doing something. Critical care was different. There wasn't usually a lot he could do, in Critical Care. And his rounds today had him facing _that_ patient, the one for whom there was nothing to be done, and who set his obsessively helpful spirit into split ends — because he was also an absolute asshole. When Anders was in a room with him, under steely eyes and the cracking whip of his tongue, the disease in him felt _deserved_ , and some part of Anders burned like blue fire, so hot it took biting his cheek bloody to restrain his bedside manner from bad attitudes.

The disease is never deserved, he reminded himself and the licks of flame that still remembered the patient's rude barkings from last time. Even in rich men who in life had been given much more than they ever did deserve, a death like this one was still a death, and people who are dying are allowed to die angry.

So he took another deep breath, because dealing with some patients just needed that much more breathing, but he could still do his job. That was the job; to be there, at the end, for anyone.

He was getting worse, sleeping more. It wouldn't be long now, and Anders tried not to be relieved. He checked his charts, his monitors, the IVs still barely holding him up. Increased the morphine, for his pain, and finished without saying a word. For a moment, he almost missed it; at least when the man was swearing at him and ranting in indecipherably bigoted tirades, he was lively. He sighed, staying the extra moment to offer the man's sallow cheeks a sympathetic glance. Death was a natural part of life, and he was old, and an asshole, and maybe he didnt deserve it but... soon the bed would be free again, and that would be alright.

When he turned to leave again, there was a dark figure sitting on the bench in the hall outside. He was reading a magazine but not flipping the pages, one leg crossed over the other in the stiff posture of someone who is uncomfortably waiting for uncomfortable news. One of the family. Anders took another deep breath. He hadn't had dealings with the wife, but he'd overheard them well enough. Unpleasant woman for an unpleasant man, trying to buy off death and then trying to kick the whole hospital down with her complaining when she couldn't. If the man waiting outside now took after either of them, his shift was about to get a whole lot worse.

He stepped out into the hall, and the man looked up from his magazine. His features were striking, sculpted. Skin the deep, radiant bronze that Anders was sure his father's would have been, back in his youth before misery and disease stole its colour. And he was, unmistakably now, his asshole patient's son; same steely grey eyes, right down to the faint creases beside them, and just as unfeeling.

"Are you his doctor?" Usually, that question, asked at this point in the process of losing someone, was croaked out. But the son didn't croak, he asked his question with a continued lack of feeling, and a bit of impatience.

"Not his attending, only a resident. I can page the doctor, if you'd like,"

"No, that's fine. Can you just tell me how long?" The man stood up, tall. Much taller than the way people usually stood in hospital corridors; poised and proud in his posture — not actually taller than Anders, but he felt it. Still a little stiff maybe, but anything uncomfortable was covered up by how well he fit into his suit; smooth and black and clinging to his body like it was made to hold him. Anders blinked, "how long he has," the son clarified unnecessarily, still coolly impatient, "I have places to be, you see."

His eyes wandered past Anders, hesitating over the window to the room where his father lay dying, then snapping back again. Not entirely unfeeling after all, but the sadness in them was troubled by something else, still indecipherable. Anders wondered what kind of relationship a son could have with a father — a father like that — for so many secrets to be buried in that glance.

Anders swallowed. No he didn't, he decided, but the thing that whispered care into his heart was wondering, catching onto the well-hidden glimpse of feeling in the man, craving already to comfort the rest.

"A few days, maybe." He answered, gentle with the news. The son nodded once. "You should say your goodbyes."

The son was looking past him again, back through the window at the sleeping form of his father, more unhappy secrets set into his jaw. Anders watched the jaw tense, and stay there.

"In a few days, maybe." replied the man, though he barely moved his tense jaw to say it. "He's awake."

Anders turned to follow the man's eyes, landing his own gaze on a twitching hand and barely moving bedsheets. He didnt look back again before darting into the room to offer his patient care.

"Dorian?" Croaked the patient, steely grey eyes opening to scan his face, and then closing in apparent disappointment.

"Your son? He's right outside, I'll —" but he wasn't. The tall, statuesque man was gone, the magazine left lying open on the bench outside in an empty white hallway. "I'm sure he'll be back soon." Anders amended, attempting to offer a bright spot of hope. His patient grunted.

Anders took a step away from the bedside, but as he did a thin, wrinkled hand shot out, and grabbed him by the wrist. The cold, unfeeling eyes opened, except now they were sad. "Word of advice, if you dont want to be disappointed in life, don't have children." Even breathy and hoarse, he managed to give his voice bite. Then his asshole patient's gaze fell on the little gold earring hanging from Anders ear, and he coughed. Anders took a deep breath in preparation for another insult, and to help him recover from the bit of unfriendly advice. "You're lucky they don't let you people have them." Some part of him found it hilarious that he could cause such ire with just jewelry, and some other part was just tired of rich, old, men. And Tevinter. His patients in Kirkwall had never threatened to buy his hospital just to have him fired. 

Anders tried not to sigh. The dying are allowed to die angry. "I'm sure he'll be back." He said again.

\----

Dorian. The name stuck to him almost as well as his tight black trousers, and Anders couldn't help but turn it over a few times in his mouth after he left the room. He made the rest of his rounds, and checked back in on father-of-the-year Pavus a few more times, lying to himself about what he was hoping to find. Dorian. He never did come back though, not during visiting hours of that day, nor the day after. On the third day things weren't looking well, and Bride of Asshole Pavus had allerted everyone on staff to the fact that it was their fault, even the poor janitors. The bed would probably be free again by the end of his shift.

He made his rounds, thinking as little about that particular patient and his particularly unpleasant wife as he could, trying to tell his inner whisperings that it wasn't worth being sad over, even if the son never said goodbye. Maybe he didn't deserve one, how could Anders judge? (Everyone deserves one) Under his breath, Anders told himself to shush. (If not for the father's sake, then for his own). Again, shush. Then, through the too-thin walls and slightly ajar door as he made his way down the glaringly white hallway, Anders heard muttering. Sad, broken, angry muttering. He stopped.

"I don't _want_ it." the phrase was repeated a few times, some utterings angry, others sad, all of them broken. "I don't want your life. I don't want to be you. I don't —" Dorian. Dorian choking on a sob. Anders took a step back, careful about the squeak of his shoes. "I don't even know why I —" he tried not to listen in (no you didn't), but the door was ajar. "Everything. I could become everything you ever asked of me and it would still never be enough, so I don't know why I — I —" there was another heartwrenching choke to a stop, then a gutteral sound of frustration that Anders could feel in his own gut. "Just once. You couldn't say it just _once_?" It sounded like the kind of question he wouldn't be getting an answer to even if the man were conscious. "I'm sorry." Anders felt that in his gut too, and the thing he was trying to keep quiet inside him wondered if the words were from Dorian to his father, or the ones Dorian was begging his unconscious body for, or both.

In hospital rooms, the sound of beeping monitors disappeared into the fray. Wheels on stretchers trundling down the halls, squeaking shoes on linoleum, ventilators whirring and monitors beeping. They only sounded like anything when they stopped, and let out that one long note to signify the end. Dorian choked out his apology several more times, once sad, once angry, always desperate, and then the monitor stopped beeping, drowning out his gasps for air with its ending, and Anders had to do his job. He walked in.

Dorian shot up. Hands swiping at his red eyes and posture somehow rising without even a hint of hunch, and Anders pretended poorly not to see any of it. The attending came, procedures were followed, and Dorian disappeared into the waiting room like he was supposed to, without a look back.

The wife was gone by the time Anders poked his head into the waiting room. It wasn't his job to tell the family, and the news had long been shared, but something told him to peek in anyway. He took another deep breath when he saw him — this family really seemed bent on messing with his breathing — sitting, one long leg crossed over the other, staring down a terrible cup of coffee, not drinking it. He sat straight, his skin shone, his suit fit him like a glove and not a hair on his head was out of place, but he looked tired. Dorian. Anders approached cautiously. It would be a while before the family could take the body, and he should go home, rest. He told him as much, to a response of slow nods. Then Dorian looked up from his coffee, eyes emotionless except for the fact that they were lined in watery red.

"I'm just waiting for my mother to finish hounding her lawyers," he said, and despite himself Anders looked about nervously, "she's not here, don't worry. She left for home an hour ago. If I wait another, she'll have tired herself out and passed out under a bottle of wine." He sighed heavily, "could use one myself, but to be honest with you I don't quite feel like going home." His eyes flicked up into Anders' with a dim light of mischief, and Anders wondered what his looks could do for him on a good day. Things Anders could never hope to achieve, no doubt.

Anders offered him the carefully crafted soft smile he reserved for these kinds of things, and said “sorry for your loss” with just a touch more feeling than most patients’ families received, since the man looked like he needed it. 

“Can’t say the same to you I suppose,” Dorian replied, shaking his head, “though I am sorry.”

Anders opened his mouth, struggled to find anything to do with it, and then closed it again. 

“For my mother,” Dorian explained as he put the coffee cup he was still holding down on the low table beside the chair he was decorating, apparently giving up any semblance of drinking it, “I’m sure his care was better than he deserved, but she doesn’t do well in situations she can’t control. It won’t come to anything.” 

Anders nodded slowly. Better than he deserved? A phrase Anders might have thought himself, over the past few weeks of dealing with the irate patient as he approached death’s door, but now that he’d gone through it, something about the sentiment irked him. “Everyone deserves compassionate care,” he corrected with another careful smile, “the best chance we can give, and comfort when that’s spent. No less.” 

The response did something odd to Dorian’s face; first a sigh, then it transmuted itself into a strangled sort of laugh, while he shook his head and regarded Anders with still-dull eyes. “Well, it can’t have been easy,” he muttered, eyes landing on Anders’ soft smile, which he hoped was still there. “Thank you.” 

Anders left him then, offering one more nod and smile before turning away to finish the rest of his shift. Two hours later, changed out of his scrubs and into his tattered old jacket over his tattered old t-shirt and jeans, he walked by the waiting room again, on his way out. Dorian was still there, still staring down that same cup of undrunk coffee. 

“Master Pavus, ser?” and that was another thing about Tevinter, the fucking _endless_ formalities.

Dorian started at the sound, and looked up from the coffee with an almost angry light in his icy eyes. “Please, Maker, call me anything but that.” 

Anders swallowed. “It’s — it’s Dorian, isn’t it?” Dorian nodded, “Dorian,” saying his name to his face felt wrong, somehow, “it’s getting rather late, is there someone I should call for you?” 

Dorian shook his head. “No,” he sighed. “Are there any bars nearby? A really terrible one, preferably.” 

Anders frowned, but there was a pretty terrible bar just across the street, stuck into a hole in the wall of an alley, with grimey old barstools and floors littered in peanut shells, so he told him so. Dorian stood, always so tall. 

“Thank you, Doctor…” 

“Anders,” he attempted a smile, but there was a good deal too much worry in it, he was sure, “just Anders; I’m off duty.” 

Dorian turned from him, then suddenly turned back. “Would you care for a drink, Anders?” 

Anders blinked. “I uh —” 

“You’ve seen the last of what was undoubtedly your worst patient today, haven’t you? Don’t tell me you didn’t plan to celebrate.” 

His brows creased unhappily, all on their own, and something inside him whispered back the memory of that broken bedside apology. “I wouldn’t —” 

“You should. I aim to. On me?” There was that light of mischief again, a little brighter, coupled with what could almost be a smirk. Maker, was he _flirting_? 

“I don’t drink.” 

Dorian frowned, and Anders almost wished he did. “A bowl of peanuts on me, then.” Dorian amended his offer with a shrug. And for some unknown reason, Anders nodded. 

“Alright.” 


	2. Getting Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the cliche prompt: “Wrapping arms around them when they make breakfast” 
> 
> Cw for drinking, descriptions of vomit

He told himself that he was just coming along to keep an eye on him. A designated driver of sorts, just one without a car, or driver’s license, for that matter. He showed Dorian to the bar across the street and ordered himself a glass of water while Dorian asked for “the worst swill you have", with a rather large tip slapped on the bartop. He was handed something astringent smelling in a foggy glass, downed it in one quick backwards toss of his head — arching his neck, snapping back again with a shudder — and then he asked to have the bottle. 

Dorian took two more shots before he spoke. “Did you know that there was an author, horror novelist, whose mother disapproved so wholly of her marriage that after she died, she and her husband took their revenge by having sex right on her grave?” 

So. This was going to be an interesting evening. “I did know that, actually.” Anders said. 

“I’m rather a fan of hers, of her work, I mean.” he took another shot, “and of her misbehaviours. Only, do you think it would be too gouache, seeing as it’s already been done?”

Anders coughed. “Because if it hadn’t been, it wouldn’t be?” 

Dorian shrugged, and took a fourth shot. Maker, he’d finish the bottle within half an hour, at this rate. 

“I’m a fan of hers too,” Anders attempted to steer the conversation into something somewhat more appropriate, “of her work.” He was also a fan of the story, but maybe not at this particular moment. 

“Oh?” 

Anders took a sip of his water, and signalled to the bartender to put a water glass in front of Dorian, too. “I tend to enjoy stories about misunderstood monsters,” he shrugged. 

“Me too.” Dorian ignored the water glass in favour of shot number five. “Of course, she was married to a like-minded soul, I’d have to find myself a willing participant.” 

“Strange thing to put into your dating app profile,” Anders agreed. Dark humour came easy — though he wasn’t entirely sure it was a good idea. 

“Mm. Man seeking man to fuck on father’s grave, must be willing to break cemetary locks and city bylaws. Risk of haunting, serious inquiries only.” 

Anders tried to stifle his laugh. Man seeking _man_ , though. No. Nope. Very terrible idea. 

“I don’t suppose you’d be game?” 

Anders coughed again, his cheeks flaring up, and shook his head. “I — uh — I think that must be against...one of my oaths.” he stuttered, still flushing. 

Dorian took yet another shot, which made six. What in the world was he _made_ of? "Yes I suppose it must be. Or should be, at any rate." His cheeks were a bit flushed too, even in the dim light, but just from the alcohol; evidently the man had no concept of shame, because next he said: "well, it was worth a shot." 

Speaking of shots. "Water," Anders instructed, moving the water glass closer to Dorian, "you should drink some water." 

"Yes doctor." Dorian obliged, taking the glass to his mouth but raking his eyes up and down Anders as he drank down the entire thing. Anders just kept on blushing. 

"I take it you and your father didn't get along?" It probably wasn't the right question to ask the recently bereaved, but he'd nearly failed that psych 101 course he'd taken in first year, and it was a step away from morbid propositions. Void, where was Merrill when he needed her? 

"You met him, didn't you?" Dorian raised an eyebrow, and with quickly failing coordination, poured himself one more shot, while spilling enough to fill another over the bartop. Anders grabbed a napkin, while Dorian threw his shot back without seeming to notice. "My father hated me." He said, once he'd swallowed. 

Tear soaked apologies and an alcohol soaked "celebration" of his death. Anders felt something in the pit of his stomach plummet that was quite removed from the growing pangs of hunger his measly lunch — a granola bar five hours ago — had left him with. 

"I'm sure he didn't —" Dorian stopped him with an ice cold look, intimidating even as he swayed in his seat.

Anders frowned, there had been something in that psych course about not sharing your own traumatic experiences with a patient, even if they were relatable. Muddies the waters of who's caretaking who, or gives them ideas, or makes you look crazy too, so they lose confidence, but — "mine did, too." He gave Dorian's arm a tentative pat, and waved the bartender down for a refill of water. Dorian drank it without prompting this time, but his eyes watched Anders again, waiting for more. "Or he must've, got rid of me quick enough." 

"Ah," Dorian leaned back, a little too far, Anders tensed to catch him in case he started to fall, "then I'm an ass. Sorry." 

"No, you're —" Dorian swayed back forward with a bit of a jolt, like he'd forgotten how to stop and needed to grip the bartop to keep level. He reached for the bottle again, and Anders shot a hand out to grab it first. Their hands met, Dorian's falling on top of his over the bottle, and then in an instant Dorian's flew away again. "You're drunk." Anders said. 

"Yes," Dorian agreed, "marvelous." He went back to the water, then cast Anders' hand, still on the bottle, a hopeful look. "Though not to the point where I won't remember any of this miserable day, yet." 

Anders raised an eyebrow, and kept his hand on the bottle. 

"Not that I'm saying I wish to forget _you_ ," Dorian's eyes were pleading with him, glossy as they were, "you've been rather kind, really, it's just…" when Anders still didn't release the bottle, he groaned. Then he straightened out his face again, a mask of sensibility that was barely holding: "I'm afraid you aren't seeing me at my best, doctor Anders." 

"Just Anders." Maker, but the sadness behind it all was killing him. You're heart's too soft, Anders, he scolded himself. 

"Anders, then." He gave himself another headshake, snapping himself to atention; snapping his attention onto _him_. "Quite the name." 

"More a point of origin." Anders explained with a shrug. 

"Yes, the hair rather gives you away. And the complexion." He reached out and slipped two of his long fingers through a strand of Anders' strawberry hair, which was falling in a straggled mess about his temples. Anders flinched, pulling his head back, and Dorian frowned apologetically. "Pretty. You're very pretty." He said. Anders shook his head and rolled his eyes — the man was drunk — but blushed again. 

"It's what the circle gave me," Anders explained the name with another shrug. He wasnt entirely sure why he was volunteering so much personal information to this perfect stranger. Perhaps he felt it was owed, after witnessing the death of the man's father, and all he'd overheard. Or maybe it was those eyes...

"Oh." Another apologetic frown, "and you ran away to Tevinter? Well, you wouldn't be the first." Anders nodded. "Where from?" 

Anders chuckled dryly, "Kirkwall, most recently." 

"Oof." Dorian grunted a drunken sound of disgust, and Anders chuckled again, "how in the world do you manage not to drink?" 

Anders’ laugh grew stronger, and finished into something more like a sigh. He shook his head and took another sip of his water, while Dorian redirected his attention once more to the bottle still protected by his hand, as though just now remembering his plight. "One more, I promise I'll be good." He begged. 

"Speaking as a doctor, I think you've had enough." 

"I thought you were off duty." 

"You're going to make yourself sick." 

"Then it's lucky I'm with a doctor." 

Anders sighed, and poured him one more slightly scant shot. Dorian frowned at the way the alcohol didn't reach the rim of the glass, but threw it back with a grateful sigh. 

“Can I call you a cab, Dorian?” Anders offered, watching worriedly as Dorian gave his head a dramatic shake and swayed a little more back and forth. The bar was emptying out, and last call was coming upon them. He cast a glance at the old watch ticking away on his wrist, mentally calculating how long it would be until he could be at home, in his bed. Not that he minded keeping the miserable man company, quite the opposite, despite everything. He had a pull to him Anders couldn’t quite explain; the eyes again, probably. But the bus came once an hour at this time of night, and didn’t stop at the closer stop, just the well-lit main hub that lay several blocks from his apartment — another fifteen minutes of walking after he got off, so a good hour or more to get home, altogether, if he left now. 

“Is it that time already?” Dorian sounded disappointed, spinning the empty shot glass around on the bar, then with a sudden spark of concern in his eyes he turned his face to Anders, “I’ve kept you too long, haven’t I? How dreadfully selfish of me, I —” he was sputtering a rather pitiful apology, and Anders’ stomach fell again at the sight of it. 

“It’s alright,” he said gently, muscle memory finding the soft smile he used for giving bad news to patients, “your father died today, you don’t have to apologize to me.”

“Yes, father died…” Dorian got a far-off look in those cold eyes of his, and then directed them back at his empty glass, “and you — you had to, I mean, here I am wasting your time when you must be — selfish —” all at once, his face crumpled, and the guilty muttering gave way to tears. Shit. 

Anders patted his back once, carefully, and Dorian seemed to utterly collapse under his touch, sobbing into the sticky countertop. Anders took a deep breath, and dragged him up again. He tossed a tip of his own onto the bar as the bartender shot them an aggravated look, and hauled Dorian away, draping his arms over his shoulders. Dorian slumped into him, heavy, hunched over, still crying, as Anders pushed through the door of the bar and into the balmy night air, awash with the putrid stench of dumpsters in the alley and the sick coughed up by the bar’s less restrained patrons. It all made him a little homesick. Dorian, hanging halfway off of him, lurched forward like he was about to add his own mess to the stink in the alley, but then he righted himself again, and propped himself up using Anders’ shoulder. Anders took the opportunity to pull out his phone. 

“Where am I sending you?” he asked helpfully. Dorian made another face that seemed to threaten that he was about to be sick. 

“I’m not going back there,” he muttered, less to Anders than to the ground. He wiped at his eyes and sniffed. “Just help me find my car?” 

“You can’t drive.” 

“I’ll sleep in it — I left it in the lot.” 

“No.” 

Dorian pushed himself off of Anders, propelling himself away from his shoulder, and staggered forward a step. Then he seemed to change his mind, or realise he was in no state to walk on his own, and reached an arm out to fall back against the wall of the alley.

“No?” He asked, incredulous as Anders took his arm and draped it back over himself, walking them out of the alley and the stink. 

“I’m not letting you sleep in your car,” Anders shook his head as he dragged the man forward. He was heavier than he looked. Strong, too, if the grip on his shoulder was any indication. “Besides, I can’t risk leaving you in a vehicle, if you did something stupid that would be on me.” 

Dorian snorted, “do you think I’m stupid?” 

“I don’t know you well enough to judge.” Anders answered honestly, which seemed to amuse Dorian. 

“I’m not stupid.” he said, “very, very smart, actually.” he insisted. Anders nodded appreciatively. 

“Alright then, so you see why I can’t just leave you in the hospital parking lot, in your condition.” 

“Mm. Kind of you, but I can think of worse places.” So could Anders, but he shuddered to think what could happen to Dorian if he left him alone like this, drunk and stumbling and wearing the most expensive looking suit he’d ever seen; he’d already flashed his overstuffed wallet far too openly when ordering his drinks inside. “Is there a hotel? I could buy a hotel.” Dorian slurred. 

Anders was fairly certain he’d forgotten a word in his suggestion, but given the suit and the wallet, maybe not. Before Anders could answer, he lurched forward and away from him again, back towards the alley, and into a spasming sort of crouch, retching. 

Anders took an instinctive step back as Dorian gagged and sputtered out a vomit of mostly liquid and bile onto the broken stone of the alleyway, then remembered his physician’s training, and rushed forward to steady him. Between coughs, Dorian swore, and when he finished (miraculously, his suit and shoes were still unharmed), he began to cry again. Anders sighed, and once more feeling a little bit homesick, he breathed out an all too familiar refrain: “well, shit.” he said. 

“Not —” Dorian was stuttering apologetically at him now, “not my best.” He wiped at his tears, swore again, then got up from his crouch and began to stumble forward once more, heading the wrong way down the alley. Anders took him by the shoulders and led him out again. 

“Hotel?” The word smushed out of him with so much drunken misery that Anders felt almost like crying for him, and he sighed again, pulling out his phone. 

“I’m taking you home,” he dialed the number and gave the taxi company their location, then propped Dorian up against the wall of the bar that faced the street, rather than the alley, keeping an eye on his paling face and shaky breathing. 

“What, your home?" 

Anders nodded, “if you choke on your vomit and die in your hotel room, I’ll feel responsible,” he explained as Dorian looked up at him with a perplexed, and dare he say it, even eager look. 

“Very kind of you, doctor Anders.” he said, but before Anders could correct him on the honorific again, he stooped and threw up, so doctor Anders it was. 

\----

Dorian all but fell asleep in the taxi, head drooping down into his chest, swaying this way and that as the car rounded the corners, but thankfully he kept from throwing up any more. The luck didn’t hold once they were inside Anders’ apartment though, and soon Anders had him steadied in a kneel over his toilet bowl, getting out the rest of it. Dorian flung most of his clothes off before throwing up this time, wrestling himself out of the suit jacket and tight shirt beneath it, while Anders tried not to be impressed. He had a really remarkable physique, but he was also lurching and coughing miserably into Anders’ toilet, so it was definitely not something to admire. Then he got him onto the couch, set a large bowl on the floor by his head, and coaxed him into one more glass of water before letting him lie down. Dorian offered him another tearful apology, and then tearful thanks, and then he passed out. Anders sat back in a chair across from him for a while, watching as his breathing slowed to a steady rise and fall, ensuring that his head was turned to the side, mouth facing the bowl, in case he was to vomit any more in his sleep, and then he finally, finally, stumbled his own way to bed. 

He woke to the sound of his cupboards banging shut and the kettle screeching to a whistle.

Anders stumbled out into his kitchen to find Dorian standing there with a distraught look on his face, pouring water into two large mugs. He was dressed again, and looking remarkably perfect, actually. Hair all in place and posture all upright once more. The bowl was gone from the floor, too, and nothing smelled off — just a little like tea. 

"How are you feeling?" He asked, suddenly aware of his own shabby pajamas. 

Dorian turned, still looking distraught. "You don't have any food." He complained, "I fed your cat —" Anders looked down to the corner of the kitchen where Ser Pounce's food bowl was, and found Ser Pounce there happily nibbling from a bowl filled to slightly too full, "I hope that's alright. I woke up with him on my chest and he wouldn't stop pawing at that cabinet so I figured…" 

Anders smiled softly, and not in a practiced way, he'd entirely forgotten to check the food bowl when they came in the night before, occupied as he'd been. 

"And then I saw you had a coffee pot, so I was going to make coffee, as a thank you — well, actually, I was going to have some delivered, but I don't rightly know where I am —" Dorian ran a hand through his hair, and he was talking quite speedily, cheeks going just slightly pink "but you don't have coffee. Or anything." 

Now Anders blushed, embarrassed for the nakedness of his cupboards. 

"Anyway, thank you. Tea?" 

Anders nodded, and took the few remaining steps to the counter to grab one of the mugs of still steeping tea; he liked to keep the bag in. He moved from the counter to the couch, cupping the mug with both hands, and sat down. 

"117 Orseck Ave.," he said, "that's where you are. How are you feeling… how much of last night do you remember?" 

"I remember making a fool of myself, if that's what you're asking. And you being uncommonly kind." He paused, "it is Anders, right?" Anders nodded, "is there anything else I _should_ remember, Anders?" 

Anders shook his head, "that about sums it up." 

Dorian chuckled. When he wasn't drunk or crying, it was a nice sound. He leaned against Anders' counter — stunning, how was he stunning after a night like the one he'd just had? "Well, you've certainly wasted enough of your time looking after me, and I can get out of your hair now, but —" 

"— I wouldn't call it a waste of time," Anders interrupted, because something in him always seemed to speak up whenever Dorian went about making statements like that. It kind of had been a waste of his time, Anders tried to protest against that something, he'd lost a great deal of sleep to it, anyway. But somehow the look that his interruption gained him from Dorian was impossible to remain grumpy with. 

"Have you been to Marc's?" Dorian asked suddenly, brightening with a hopeful smile, "since I know where we are now, and its nearby, and you have no food," he went on, "and personally, I'm starving —" 

"I imagine you would be," Anders said, though at the mention of hunger his own stomach took the opportunity to awaken too, noisily. Dorian raised an eyebrow at the sound. 

"Might I buy you breakfast? I feel I owe you that much." 

Anders hadn't been to Marc's. He'd been by it many times, a busy little brunch place, always smelling of bacon and pancakes and with a line out the door. It was a bad idea to say yes to this, he thought, a bad idea to say yes to anything involving absurdly handsome men who just lost their fathers, who were obviously walking disasters waiting to happen (you always had a thing for disasters waiting to happen) — shush. His stomach grumbled again. 

"I haven't been," Anders answered, "there's always a line — and I am on call, I might not have time to —" 

"Oh, we can skip all that." Dorian brushed the protest aside, "so? Don't try to tell me you aren't hungry." 

Anders kicked at a bit of cat hair fluff adorning the edge of his couch, "alright, sure."

Dorian was certainly good at getting him to say yes to things he should know better than to say yes to. If he kept going on like this, the next thing he knew he'd be having sex on his father's grave. 

\---- 

They arrived at the restaurant, just a short walk from Anders' building, and yet in a considerably nicer part of town — the new money was creeping in towards his end of things, but where he lived at least was still very much _no_ money — and Dorian walked straight up to the front of the line. Anders hung back, watching skeptically as Dorian performed a series of intricate maneuvers: some charm, a smile, a handshake Anders recognized from Varric — the kind with a bill snuck inside — and then he turned, waving Anders over. 

"We can wait ten minutes for a table, or have our food prepared now and take it outside. Your choice." He smiled. Maker, _such_ a good smile; straight teeth and a brilliantly white gleam. "But you're on call, right? And to be honest with you, the fresh air is making me feel considerably less queasy. Park across the street?" Anders nodded and shrugged at the same time, a gesture that seemed to satisfy Dorian into continuing to take charge of the situation. "Alright then, to go. And fast, if you can. We're both very busy and important." He winked at the young hostess as he was handed two paper menus, and Anders could have sworn she blushed brighter than the checkerboard red on the apron she wore. "What do you fancy?" Dorian asked him, handing over one of the papers. 

It was diner food, but not really. Poached eggs with house-smoked bacon over an heirloom tomato coulis, waffles with Orlesian creme sauce and glazed berries, rare wheat pancakes with apple cinnamon compote and vanilla syrup — just a few options, all of them coming with a detailed list of decadent flavours. In addition to those few confounding main courses was a fresh juice list filled with exotic fruits Anders had never even heard of, and approximately twenty different kinds of coffee. 

"Uh, waffles?" He said, squinting at the menu, "waffles and coffee?" 

Dorian beamed some more, and took back his menu to point out the waffle dish, as well as several other things, confidently ordering far more food than could possibly be necessary as well as coffee and one of the strange fruit juices while insisting that Anders simply had to try it. The patient employee nodded and hurried away, and not ten minutes later came back with two plastic bags stuffed near splitting with cardboard containers, and a tray of drinks. Dorian thanked her with another winning smile and secretly-funded handshake, and then they were off. 

The park across the street had benches, so they sat on one — finding one in the shade of a great, leafy tree, as even the morning sun was warm. Then, Dorian began a conversation, and the whole thing was far less awkward than Anders had expected. Dorian asked about his work, so Anders described some of it, though he avoided anything too close to topics of death and dying, and Dorian held his gaze while he talked and asked compelling questions. He seemed to be, as claimed, very smart, and the food was practically otherworldly. Then Anders asked Dorian about his work in turn, and Dorian sighed. 

"Well, you're new here, aren't you? How much do you know about Tevinter politics? The intricacies of it all can take a lifetime to wrap one's head around. That's by design; keeps things all tied up with the upper classes who have it in their blood to be intollerable bureaucrats." His air was flippant, but altogether disapproving, which Anders appreciated. 

"I've been here a while now, actually. A couple of years, anyway, I understand it a bit. Political science was always my…'' downfall? "Second passion." He washed down a heaping forkful of creme covered waffles made of pure fairy dust and clouds with whatever exciting fruit drink Dorian had handed him — it tasted like bright green, with a hint of citrus. "I feel people should be informed — active. Healthcare is as political as it is practical." And mage freedom, that was political too, but they didn't have to get into that. Mages were already free in Tevinter. Other kinds of people, however — something bitter bit at the back of his mind. But it was too sunny, and the food too good, for that sort of conversation. 

Dorian nodded approvingly, his eyes lighting up. "Alright then, I'm an Altus. I argue things in circles in the house a lot, these days I've been losing all sorts of friends arguing this Sopperati electorate reformation bill," Anders' eyes widened, impressed. He'd been following the progress of it, a huge step for increased class equality, if it passed. So maybe it was just sunny enough for such a conversation. "but of course it can only go so far without approval from the Magisterium," Dorian went on, a slight growl of frustration colouring his tone, which was appealing in a different way, "and for that we need to convince those with seats in the — in the —'' he stopped, and some of the light fell from his eyes. "I just remembered that my father is dead." He said. Shit. Not a sunny conversation, after all. "His seat passes to me, you see, because nepotism still runs stronger than good sense and he's written my name into all these continuations of his legacy and…" he sighed, and stabbed hard at a piece of brilliantly poached egg, which honestly didn't deserve it, "sorry. It's going to be a very hectic and difficult few weeks, with all the ceremony and paperwork and the whole ordeal of burying him…" he scooped up some of his bleeding egg yolk with a wedge of toast, and went silent in favour of eating, while Anders took an uncomfortable sip of juice that seemed to have lost some of its vividness. "You've been here for years, you said?" Dorian changed the subject, refocusing on Anders. Anders nodded, still awkwardly sucking up juice through the straw of his cup. "I would have sworn you were an escapee fresh from the harbour." 

"Why?" Anders bristled a little. 

"Your apartment. You have no food or furniture," Anders bristled a little more, "and you've never been to Marc's", Anders frowned, furrowing his brow at the impossibly good, impossibly expensive waffles, "and you're too nice." Dorian finished. Anders looked up in surprise, catching Dorian's eye. They were still a bit lost for light, but soft on him. 

"I'm just very busy," Anders shrugged. And very poor, but, well, Dorian probably thought anyone with fewer than a thousand acres of family land was poor, given his status. He didn't need to know the extent of it. 

"Hm," Dorian's eyes were still on him, soft and thoughtful, "what else haven't you done?" Anders shrugged, and Dorian began listing things. Tourist attractions and famed galleries, but also other, lesser-known offerings of the city that Anders had never even heard of. 

"Ferry through the archipelegos?" 

"No." 

"The volcanic sand beaches?"

"No." 

"Dinner at the top of Tidarion Tower?" 

"No." 

And on like that, until he finally said yes to something — taking in a show at the infamous burlesque playhouse in the city's red light district, which elicited an eyebrow raise.

"Priorities, I see." Dorian chuckled, "at least you have good taste." He reached an arm up over Anders' side of the bench, as he finished with his food and slid the box away, very smooth. "I'd have offered to take you. Maybe one of the others sometime, then, if you've a mind." He suggested. Anders could feel his cheeks beginning to turn hot again. Still a bad idea, he reminded himself. Apparently sensing his unease, Dorian removed his arm from its perch near Anders' shoulders. "May I say something painfully honest?" he asked. 

Anders swallowed, but he managed a smirk as he replied. "I think we're well past that," he said. 

Dorian shook his head with a dry chuckle, "yes, well. I'm all out of sorts, as you may have noticed." 

Anders chuckled too, but with him, not at. 

"And normally, if I'm to get drunk and go home with a stranger, it all goes a certain way," then he actually winked, which on him was somehow charming and not over the top at all. Anders swallowed again, "and, not that I'm opposed, but, well, as I said: you've been uncommonly kind. I could — I've been losing friends left and right lately, it seems, with this bill, and…" 

"I'm a fan of the bill," Anders said, "in fact I'm not sure it goes far enough." 

The interruption seemed to lend Dorian some more confidence, as though he needed it, "so, pretty as you may be, I could use a, uh —" 

Anders blushed again, but finished for him, "a friend?" He could use one too, if he was being honest. Near everything seemed to be making him homesick, lately. 

Dorian nodded. "If that's not too forward." He said. 

"You fed my cat," Anders replied, "as far as I'm concerned, we're already friends." 

At that, Dorian smiled. He asked Anders his cat's name, and chuckled at the answer, and then they exchanged phone numbers and Anders stuck a little cat next to his own name as he entered it into Dorian's contact screen, which had him laughing even more. Anders offered to put the puking emoji next to Dorian's in return, but he insisted on a snake, because he “had a reputation to uphold”. Then Anders’ pager went off, and he groaned inwardly, wishing he could spend the day in the sun for once. 

“Duty calls?” 

Anders grimaced, and stood up. “Thanks for breakfast,” he said, meaning it. Dorian stood too. 

“You should take the rest — actually, this may be awkard, but I think we’re going the same way.” His car. Of course. 

“You’re going to have a small fortune to pay in parking tickets,” Anders realised, frowning. 

“Oh that’s fine. I have one of those — big, actually.” he winked again, “very big.” Sweet Maker, he just never stopped. 

Dorian insisted on a cab, and then he insisted on paying for it, and _then_ he insisted on Anders taking the rest of their uneaten brunch items to store in the breakroom for his lunch, and then finally he was ready to let him go, with a promise to be in touch. He extended his hand for Anders to shake. Anders took it, holding fast with a sure grip, and then, drawn in yet again by those cool, sad eyes, he pulled Dorian’s arm towards him, and wrapped him up in a tight hug. 

Dorian stumbled back afterwards, cheeks flush, eyes glinting with surprise. “What was that for?” 

“Just seemed like you needed it,” Anders said. 

Dorian was still blushing, and his smile warmed Anders’ own cheeks. “Suppose I did,” he agreed. 

“Take care, Dorian.”

“As you say, doctor.”


	3. Brushing Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the prompt: "brushing hands unexpectedly"

Friends. That was what they had decided to be. Anders was satisfied with the arrangement in principle, but the problem with being friends with Dorian was… well, everything. 

He was sad. Very obviously and very understandably not in a good place. But following that first meeting, he zipped himself right up, kept all that aching intensity to himself. He changed subjects ever and away from his mood, his thoughts, his desires; treating Anders more and more like a casual acquaintance as a distance spread itself, a bit belatedly, between them. They talked about politics, they talked about medicine, they talked about magic, and all the time his flawless hair would shine and his voice would cut through the air with enviable confidence and his hands would bounce about with passion. He was tall and silver-eyed and beautiful, and something in Anders desperately wanted to hold him. But he didn’t — couldn’t. Dorian was hands tied behind his back and perfect posture kept at an insurmountable distance, and Anders wasn’t about to force himself through. Friends. Every now and then, they got coffee. A minute here or there between meetings and rounds. Sometimes late at night, they’d have long conversations over text about everything and nothing at all, and Anders would try to remind himself that on the other side of that screen, Dorian was probably drunk. Emboldened by alcohol and the illusion of anonymity in a text message. The next time Anders saw him, his guard would be back up, and whatever was honest about him would get swept back underneath a thick carpet of sarcasm and flirtation.

And oh, Maker, the flirtation. It wasn’t fair, really; an apostate mage from the gutters of Kirkwall pitted in wordplay against a shining star politician of Tevinter high society. It was like he’d been born to flatter and beguile. Anders had had a reputation for sass, once, as a mouthy lad in the Circle. Later, Isabella and Varric had been fine players to practice a game of wits with, but Dorian was better than silver-tongued, rich with fine words and perfect-teeth-bearing smiles. Varric would have had a field day, mining the man for dialogue. But it was a cold sort of flirtation, more game and art than anything else. He used it with everyone; ordering coffee, thanking store clerks and cab drivers for their time, giving directions to wayward tourists, it was just his way, nothing special. Problem was, each time Dorian flashed that shining, secret-keeping smile at him, Anders _felt_ special. Or wanted to. 

“Follow me,” Dorian had met him at their usual coffee shop, standing outside with two paper cups already, Anders’ usual order and his own. He handed him his coffee and turned to march off, motioning Anders along as he headed off fast down the busy street. Anders stumbled to catch up, drinking the coffee as they went. 

“I only have an hour,” he warned, brows furrowing as Dorian led them across the avenues in a straight line away from the coffee shop and the nearby hospital. He tossed his own espresso straight back and threw the cup away into the next rubbish bin they passed, pausing to separate the plastic from the paper. A small thing that something in Anders appreciated far too much. 

“And I have forty-five minutes,” Dorian tossed him one of those smirks that were not, he repeated to himself, special. “So try to keep up.” 

He made a sharp turn down a sloping main street, and then the ocean leapt into view. At the bottom of the hill was a small beach, one of the city’s less crowded, close as it was to the harbour. Great tankers and commercial ships sat heavily in the grey water, blocking the view of a sunny, tropical horizon, as might be found on the wider beaches further up the coast. There was a dog park, and a playground, and several ice cream trucks were sidled up to the curb by an overstuffed parking lot. Children played at the playground and obnoxiously fit people trotted along the walking path that wound around the park and then off along the coast towards those bigger, better beaches. Dorian stopped at the bottom of the hill, toes poking over the edge of the small grassy field of the park where it gave way to gritty brown sand. There were volcanic sand beaches on the islands out at sea, glowing black in the sun a day’s ferry away from the harbour, and clean white beaches spanned long lines of coast away from the city, if one drove the Imperial highway some hours out of town, or took the once-a-day train, but this beach was just brown, smelling a bit of seaweed and city smog amidst the salty breeze and the sun. Anders breathed in deep as the wind whipped up from the ocean, tasting the salt as it mingled with city grime, reminding him a little, but not enough, of home. 

“Alright, stand here,” said Dorian, turning and gesturing out, his shoes sinking into the sand, “look out over there, and take this:” 

Anders looked out where Dorian had pointed, across a clear swatch of sand and chirping gulls and into the waves, away from the obstructions of wharfs and ships. Dorian reached into his bag — a strappy leather briefcase that had more buckles on it than it could possibly need — and pulled out an entire bottle of red wine. He handed it to Anders. 

“There, not quite the view from the cliffs, but it's the air that matters.” He gestured out at the view as Anders warily took the bottle. It was wrapped in thick, textured paper, an elegant script declaring the year and the vineyard over a label designed after a painting of the ocean under a setting sun. Anders looked between the bottle and the horizon, where the sun was just beginning to dip into a red glow. In the painting, the waves washed up against a picturesque bank of rock and sand, not seaweed and seagulls, but the sunset matched. “I can’t imagine you’ll ever find the time to actually get out of the city, so this will have to do.”

Another of those Tevinter must-sees that Anders had scandalized Dorian by having never seen: Tevinter wine country. They’d talked about the importance of wine once, and Anders had been unable to be convinced to appreciate it, much to Dorian’s chagrin. A glass of wine at one of those cliffside vineyards along the coast was, according to Dorian, akin to taking a seat at the very side of the Maker himself. Dorian waved a casual hand over the bottle as Anders held it, loosening the cork so that it slid out with a quiet pop. Anders’ eyes lingered over his fingers as they flicked out this frivolous bit of magic. He was full of little tricks like that, as self-serving and casual with his magic as a Magister was expected to be. Anders could set a bone, but Dorian had a spell for uncorking wine — of course he did. 

“I don’t drink,” Anders protested, shaking the image of his dancing hands casting spells under the sunset out of his vision and redirecting his look, with a healthy show of skepticism, at the bottle. “I’m still _working_.” 

“Well, first of all, you’re getting ahead of things. You need to let it have some air, first. Just breathe it in.” Dorian instructed with a nod. Anders shook his head, but wafted a hand over the mouth of the bottle and inhaled, smelling the sea salt and spice.

It smelled good. He wasn’t homesick, with the wine in the air, and the sudden rush of warmth hitting him now felt nothing like Kirkwall. Dorian smiled, watching his face as he inhaled. Deep red of the sunset-stained sea and the dark sweetness of finely aged grapes. Bright teeth and a seductive lean to his lips. He could practically taste it. 

“Feel that? Now, one sip won’t kill you.” Anders shook his head again, rolling his eyes. 

“I know what wine tastes like.” He had nothing against drinking, it just seemed to filter through him while bypassing all the fun parts. And without that, wine lost most of its appeal. 

“You’re Ferelden,” Dorian jabbed back, a continuation of their earlier argument on the subject, “no you don’t.” 

Anders sighed and took a sip. 

The gulls cawed, a ship’s horn blasted noisily across the harbour, dogs barked and swings creaked and ice cream trucks jingled out their ditties, but Anders wasn’t there. He looked out at the sunset, red across the foaming grey sea and brown sand, and held the wine on his tongue. He leaned back, free hand dropping to his side as he closed his eyes, and let the warmth soak in. Spice and cherry and old smokey oak, smooth and dry and only sweet after it had some time to linger. He swallowed, and passed the bottle back. 

Dorian took a sip, and stared out over the water with all those troubles of his, eyes just as tumultuous and grey as the waves themselves as he cast them out into the sunset. Anders felt himself leaning a little closer.

“So? Do you concede?” Dorian asked, too close, after a moment too long. 

“It’s good wine,” he took the bottle again, and risked himself one more very small sip before passing it back. 

“I told you it mattered,” Dorian took another, larger swig, “the winery, the vintage, the air —”

“The company,” Anders added, winning himself another pleased smile, feeling special. 

Dorian leaned back and closed his eyes with one more sip, each drink seeming to draw them a little closer. Anders watched the sun set and filled his lungs with a slow, careful breath of salty air. Down at his side, miles away from his conscious thought, his hand found Dorian’s and brushed against it for all of an instant; just a fleeting rush of heat and giddy inebriation before Dorian’s hand flinched itself away. 

Dorian resealed the bottle and packed it back into his briefcase. He grinned with the satisfaction of having won his argument, and walked Anders back up the street with fast strides, bragging about Tevinter wines. They parted ways again at the coffee shop with nothing more than nods and waves. 

The flirting was toothless, ordinary; not special. Dorian kept his sad secrets to himself, his flirting all talk. Friends, they’d agreed. Arguments about wine and quick cups of coffee, and sometimes wine-sweetened text messages that were almost vulnerable, after the sun had set.


	4. Just Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the I Found You... prompt: "watching me while I sweat from exercising"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fellas is it gay to know your best friend's schedule better than they know it themselves, fellas is it gay to run into your friend at the end of a workout and lose all the thoughts right outta your brain, fellas is it gay to think about your friend liking cats and then invite them to get lunch with you at a cat cafe just cause, fellas....
> 
> I have a few plans for this au and a few prompts I'm still working on but still feel free to send more or just come say hi on the tumbls :3

Befriending Magister Dorian Pavus continued to be the worst decision Anders had made since the one that had landed him in Tevinter in the first place. Not at the least because being friends with Magister Dorian Pavus was, on a scheduling level, practically impossible. It was almost maddening, how neither of them ever seemed to have any blighted free time. There was Dorian, very important and very busy, always rushing off to meetings or press events or fundraisers or galas, only available for a quick coffee or for trying to convince Anders to go out clubbing at two in the morning. Which, frankly, he had less than no interest in doing — for several reasons, only minimally to do with the fact that the music gave him a headache (the thought of standing by and watching Dorian dance and practice his smarmy lines on attractive club goers made up most of the rest of it). And then there was his own life, overflowing with unkempt medical notes and overdue bills, and a schedule packed with night shifts and on-call hours that made maintaining a regular sleep schedule impossible, never mind a social life. But despite all that, it was nice to have someone to talk to again. Someone passionate and revolutionary and witty and… just about as lonely as he was, so better not to go messing it up. Better to try to maintain this one terrible friendship — the only one he had that wasn't with a "work friend", or a cat. It was just a really difficult thing to do, between the unrepenting workdays and restless nights filled with dreams of his beautiful Maker-damned face. 

Dorian, however, was remarkably good at being  _ his _ friend. He always managed to make time. Drew it out of thin air, it seemed, conjured it up like magic between his press conferences and business trips. He had this impossibly serendipitous way of always seeming to send a text offering to meet for coffee right as Anders' break was coming up, and thanks to his own life of impossible hours he was always amenable to a spot of caffeine well into the evening. Other times, he'd offer up an address, saying "meet me here tonight if by the end of your shift you're still alive", and Anders would reply "doubtful", and then show up later anyway to the movie theater, or concert hall, or burlesque playhouse, only to fall asleep in his seat once the lights went down — which, at the burlesque playhouse at least, everyone seemed to find incredibly amusing. 

Today, his shift would be finished at an uncommonly early hour, having started at one that was painfully so. And even though his work-to-sleep ratio for the week was currently hovering at around four to one, when a text came in from Dorian during his break that read simply, "lunch later? Meet me if you have an hour free." He cheerfully replied "I'm off at noon!" And decided to postpone his much-needed afternoon nap. Friends with Dorian, he smiled, terrible decision. 

——

Anders did not work out. Whatever strength he had he came by naturally, by way of pushing hospital equipment around and running up and down stairs all day. His calves, as a result, were particularly firm, and he had defined, if skinny, biceps. His core was probably strong enough, what with the constant balancing act that was keeping up with his daily life, but if he had wanted abs he would probably have to do something about his diet; more protein, fewer sugary carbs, meals that weren't eaten while standing on a city bus. But a personal beauty routine had always been low on his priority list. If he was looking to impress someone, he usually tried to get his bad jokes and the somewhat trashy rebel-mage aesthetic (which he also came by naturally) to do the job for him. It was not, historically, the best strategy. But he also wasn't looking. Dorian, on the other hand, had beauty routines for his beauty routines. Apparently the way to make up for the sleeplessness of a busy life was to exercise regularly, drink exceptionally expensive vitamin concoctions (despite the fact that his friend, who was a _ doctor,  _ had told him repeatedly that the vitamins in such quantities were oversaturated, contradictory, and essentially useless), and to apply a laundry list of products to one's skin and hair — that, at least, seemed to work. 

And so it was that when Anders showed up at the designated spot, practically asleep on his feet and slouching eagerly off the bus towards the promise of an hour of good company and  _ food _ , that he discovered that the place Dorian had instructed him to meet at was not a restaurant, or even a coffee shop, but a gym. A gym with wide glass windows facing the street, so that the gorgeous, obviously affluent, gym-membership-holders could sweat it out while on display for the benefit of all the less beautiful and less lucky passersby. Or perhaps it was the other way around, and rich people got a kick out of running in place for their health while watching working folk run breathlessly after the busses that pulled up to the dirty old bus shelter on the street outside. Anders didn't know, he didn't go to gyms. But Dorian did; he went to this gym. He paid an exorbitant membership fee and wore a tight t-shirt branded with the gym's logo while he ran himself sweaty on a treadmill, spraying fancy water into his mouth like he was advertising the stuff, and towelling himself off with the clean white towels provided while still running, panting with the efforts of his impressively athletic exertions. This, Anders discovered by staring at him as he did it, through the clear glass window from the street, his mouth falling open and throat going dry until Dorian spotted him, and he snapped his mouth shut while his cheeks went red. Dorian's cheeks were also red, a bead of sweat dripping down over one in a long glistening trail from his temple. He pressed some buttons on the treadmill, slowed down to a walk, smiled, and waved. Anders, like a dumbfounded puppet on a string, raised his hand and dropped it again, in some approximation of returning the greeting.   


Ten minutes later, Dorian met Anders outside the door of the clean, white and minimalist setting of the gym's lobby with his regular (still tight) clothes on and his damp hair fragrant with some kind of rich, flower-infused cream. 

"You got here faster than I expected, sorry you had to wait." 

"Good bus timing," Anders shrugged, pointedly not looking at him. One intolerable sensation at a time, and he still smelled amazing. 

"You know there's an app for the schedules, GPS tracking and everything." Dorian commented. Why he knew that, when he'd probably never taken public transportation in his life, Anders couldn't guess. But then, Dorian was infinitely more organized than he was; good with schedules. Anders, meanwhile, struggled to keep his own thoughts straight, never mind the kinds of itineraries that Dorian kept. So he just nodded along, certain that he would never remember to check, or even download, the recommended app. 

Dorian led them up to the intersection, and pressed the button at the crosswalk, every simple movement somehow upright and deliberate. "So, lunch? I'm starving, there's a great place across the street." 

Anders glanced back at the gleaming white and chrome of the gym, and the equally sleek boutiques to either side of it. He frowned, fingering the well-worn leather billfold in his pocket. "How great?" He asked, cautiously. 

"Great as in  _ healthy _ , all vegan food and local produce and the like." Dorian smirked at him, and Anders made the mistake of looking at it. He blushed, and frowned some more. 

"Oh, great." He said, with very little enthusiasm. A twelve dollar salad and one of those ludicrous vitamin waters, just what he and his malnourished billfold needed. 

"You're a doctor, you can't live on cup noodles and granola bars all the time. It sets a bad example." Dorian berated, lightly, in return. 

"At least cup noodles have salt." Anders protested, "Maybe too much, but that's better than none at all. And you know organic is just a buzzword, not everything organic is healthier. And the hoops of getting branded "Organic" just make it harder for actual family owned farmers, who grow perfectly healthy crops, to market to sellers," he ranted about it, albeit halfheartedly, until Dorian sighed and shook his head. 

"Which is why I said local, not organic. And I've been, I promise they use seasonings. You really think I'd debase myself by dining somewhere that didn't know how to properly use spice?" 

Anders grunted, still disapproving. 

"It's good, really. You'll like it there, they have cats." 

"They have…?" Anders spun to watch Dorian, squinting in confusion at him as he brightened the world about him with another one of those obnoxiously perfect smiles. 

"Cats, they're all very tame. You can sit with them while you eat or play with them afterwards. An endeavour of the local animal shelter to help encourage adoption, as I understand it." Dorian explained casually. Then the light changed and he set off walking. Anders followed, significantly less grumpily, though now his stomach was turning flips for an entirely different reason besides hunger. 

Forget Kirkwall, actually. Befriending Dorian was, hands down, the absolute worst decision he’d ever made.


	5. Asking a Favour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cliche prompt: I need a date to this wedding

He had a wrap made with roasted vegetables, house made hummus, and smoked tofu, and it was surprisingly good. A little expensive still, but the menu said that a portion of all the proceeds went towards supporting the animal shelter, so really no part of him could find reason to complain. A skinny young tabby came and sat by them while they ate, and Anders stroked its stripes slowly, almost mesmerized, while Dorian told him the latest dramatic tale from some high-brow party he’d been to the night before. Anders was only half listening; they’d been friends for just over a month, though with all the little chunks of time they found to spend together, it seemed longer, and in that time Anders had learned that Dorian went to an unbelievable number of fancy parties. It seemed like there was a new one each night, fundraisers and awards ceremonies and shows of support for one cause or another. Pompous, stuffy affairs that he looked to Anders to laugh over, later. Anders didn’t mind, exactly, he could make fun of upper class excess any day of the week, and he actually appreciated being privy to some of the more political gossip, but there was a reason why Dorian seemed to always cap the nights off with an outing to some noisier, bouncier club. Most of what he did for work was painfully boring. And the stories that came after, about what happened at said bouncy clubs, were worse still. 

He was going through it, Anders reminded himself, he didn’t really talk about it, but it was there. Grief and guilt and an unmistakable feeling of relief, which only led him to more guilt. There was a good deal of alcohol in the mix, too. He looked good, tall and handsome, workouts the next day to detox from the wild nights, but he was still a mess, underneath it all. Easy to forget, smooth as he talked, but Anders had an uncanny ability to see through veils, thanks to that ghost still shadowing his soul. 

As his friend, Anders was more or less supportive; reminders about the uselessness of detoxes, a sounding board for work-related gripes, encouraging smiles when it looked like Dorian might say something a little closer to the truth. But as a man who had  _ seen _ him, been struck down by the lightning bolt of his smile every time it graced his lips, he was mostly just jealous. But Dorian was busy treating his grief with sex and mindnumbing dance beats, and Anders would rather be a friend than a drunken encounter at a noisy club, so that was that. And he was very deliberately not waiting. He’d done all that before, the yearning and pining and endless aching for a one-sided love, and it was fucking terrible. Unhealthy. Friendship was good, friendship was healthy. Being used as some kind of distraction would not be, no matter how tempting. 

Anders, meanwhile, had found his own distraction in the form of a coworker who was also decidedly  _ going through something _ . Someone as different as could be from Dorian, and who had no undue attachment to Anders whatsoever. In fact, she had three or four men in rotation and was very obviously beginning to fall in a complicated way for one of the other ones. So distractions abounded, but at least between himself and Dorian there could just be a solid foundation, untroubled by jealousy and sex. Except for when he smiled. 

“Anders?” Dorian’s voice cut through his thoughts, and the skinny tabby looked up, irritated that Anders had abruptly stopped petting it. “Alright, I get it, Tevinter politics, boring.” Dorian went on, “shall I leave you here with your new friend?” The cat hopped down from its perch on the seat next to Anders, and slunk away, indifferent. 

“I — ah,” Anders shook his head, turning his focus back to Dorian, who always seemed to be smirking at him. “Sorry, I’m just tired.” 

Dorian raised an eyebrow, then glancing away over Anders’ shoulder, he indicated something with a slight nod. “Would a kitten help?” 

Anders turned to look, and whatever else was going on in his heart simply melted away, as two bright white kittens emerged stumbling from one of the carpeted cat tunnels set out under the windows of the cafe, wobbling and hopping over one another with fluffy little tails and bright blue eyes. 

“Sweet maker,” he breathed, and he could hear Dorian laughing under his breath as he watched, “I’m going to go pet those kittens now.” Anders announced, leaving his head-shaking and amused friend behind. 

He played with the kittens until they finished being curious about him and wandered off to sniff at someone else, and then he took a look around the place, appreciating the genius of it. Lots of fun shelves and carpeted tunnels and posts with fluffy balls on strings tied to their ends, cats lounging and wandering about; the skinny tabby, the two white kittens, an old black and brown giant with long hair and a grumpy expression, watching from a shelf on high, and several others, sleeping in happy piles on top of one another in various hiding spots or jumping from platform to platform overhead. There was a bulletin board on the wall with each cat’s picture posted up, along with an informative biography detailing their name, breed and personality. Paperwork for adoption could be requested from the servers, and the place had purportedly housed over a hundred lonely cats in the short time since its opening. There were some pictures of the lucky adoptees up on the board as well, and a flyer requesting volunteer help at the shelter. Anders ripped off one of the phone numbers hanging from it. 

By the time Anders returned to their table, feeling altogether lighter and refreshed, Dorian had paid their bill. Anders watched as Dorian stood, pulling the strap of his gym bag back up over his shoulder and checking his watch with an apologetic grimace. 

“You didn’t have to pay,”Anders frowned, reaching in his pocket for the bills to cover his share. Dorian shrugged. 

“I may have ulterior motives, actually.” He replied, and Anders’ frown deepened. “I need to ask you a favour.” 

He crossed his arms, feeling rather buttered up, what with the kittens and the lunch and the way Dorian was still slyly smiling at him. 

“There’s an event next week, and I need someone to accompany me…” 

“I’m no good at formal events,” Anders warned, “I’ll get you voted out of the Magisterium just by holding my fork wrong or something.” 

“It’s not that kind of event, it’s a — it’s a family affair. A wedding.” Dorian admitted the context stiffly, a tenseness in his jaw already. It had been weeks since the funeral, which he’d never talked about at all, but the way he said  _ wedding _ sounded about as much like one. 

Anders’ heart stilled. “Can’t you find a date?” He quipped, or tried to quip, throat going dry again. 

Dorian sighed. “I could take the one my mother’s found, or I could take a friend.” he replied, eyes pleading. Fuck that word and his desperate eyes. “Besides, the whole thing would be much more tolerable with someone to make snide remarks with on the sidelines. Free food, free wine, saving me from an evening of drudgery celebrating the union of some distant fourth-cousin and her fifth husband. Please?” 

“I don’t much want to antagonize your mother.” Anders said, still frowning. He remembered her in the hospital, shouting bloody murder at his supervisors and snapping at the nurses. And it didn’t escape him either that for Dorian to bring another man to a family affair would set tongues wagging; that he probably wanted it to. Anders had a habit of flaunting Tevinter sensibilities where it came to things like  _ gender presentation _ and  _ respectable life choices.  _ Some of it was accidental — there were so many rules to Tevinter codes of behaviour, it was too easy to break them — but some of it was deliberate. He missed Kirkwall, where none of it had really mattered, and some part of him didn’t want to let Tevinter rigidity take away his freedom. Halward Pavus, rest his temperamental soul, had seemed to pinpoint him for his otherness even while laying on his deathbed, and had let him know it with regular scorn. Scorn he’d no doubt directed at Dorian his whole life, given all the maladaptive coping mechanisms he was displaying in the wake of his death. And Anders was still trying not to become a maladaptive coping mechanism. Spirits on earth, he needed to call Merrill. 

“Not even a little?” Dorian prodded, breaking through his brooding once again, “it can be great fun you know; it’s practically a hobby of mine.” 

Anders sighed. “I wouldn’t know what to wear.” he said, a lame excuse that Dorian would happily rectify in a second, given how much he delighted in his own stylings. He could see it already, a smirk coming back to his lips out of that tense jaw, ready to make some suggestions as soon as Anders gave him permission. 

“We can work on that. Come on, if you say no I’ll be forced to get exceedingly drunk, reject a probably perfectly tolerable woman, and generally make a scene.” 

“As though inviting  _ me _ isn’t going to do that,” Anders protested. No, Dorian didn’t talk about his family much, but Anders didn’t need him to in order to figure him out. 

“You’re a friend, and a doctor. It’s plenty respectable.” Dorian leaned back, “and an excuse to leave early, if you get called away for some sort of...medical emergency.” he winked. 

Anders sighed again. “Fine,” he said, shaking his head and wondering who exactly was deciding his responses at this point; clearly not the part of him that was sensible. “But I’m not buying new robes.” 

“Of course not, you have terrible taste.” Dorian grinned, “I’ll find you something.” 

Anders took the bus home, and fell asleep on his couch, an unsent text message still in the draft stages on his phone. Not to Merrill, she would be useless in this particular dilemma, but to a different old friend. Not that he trusted Isabella to know what to do, either, but at least her advice would be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merrill's just a therapist in all my aus lol no relation to the Merrill Sessions.   
> Also Anders makes a point of being gnc just to piss people off and that's canon now. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	6. Holding Eachother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Can you just hold me? Please?" 
> 
> CW for more alcohol and drug use. This is going somewhere but it's... messy.

He didn’t hear from Dorian for a couple of days. Which was normal; they were both busy, and it would be excessive to want to talk to him all the time. And Anders didn’t — want to, that is. He didn’t. He called the animal shelter about volunteering, because he couldn’t help himself, and he met up with that coworker who definitely wished he was someone else, but they had fun and Anders had something like another friend, and so he didn’t — wish that he was with someone else, that is. He didn’t. Then he worked a night shift in the emergency room, frantic and bustling and deep in blood and magic and sweat, like he was supposed to be. 

Isabella had responded to his rambling text of emotionally heavy romantic agonizing with the unhelpful sentiment of “why not both!” when it came to the prospect of whether Dorian was his soul mate, or an unexploded grenade, or just the first friend he’d had in over two years. “You can fuck your friends Anders,” she had said, “and there isn’t anyone interesting in the world who won’t explode on you.”, and then she’d capped that nugget of advice off with several oddly evocative emojis. 

Things did not wind up exploding at all in the way he expected. But then, they never did. 

Anders finished his shift with shoulders slumped under an ocean of wear. He felt colourless, like the magic he’d spent over the course of the long night had drained the very iron from his blood, and, to some degree, it probably had. Even the ghost was quiet, huddling up with his natural pool of the stuff, keeping him going just well enough to drag his bag out of his locker and rake his hands through his hair as he let it down, easing the ring of tight aches that pulled around his scalp from having it bound up all day. For all his sweat and toil, the texture of his hair was dry; raspy and frayed, tired out by hard soaps and infrequent care, unaccustomed to the beating sun. Still, he’d rather keep it long than cut it off.

He sighed as he shouldered through the hospital doors, tucking his hands into his pocket to pull out his phone; checking the GPS location of his bus. Before he could bring up the scheduling app, he was hit with a total of twenty three urgent notifications. All of them from Dorian. 

He had seven missed calls, three voicemails, and an absolute maelstrom of texts. Mostly the texts were incomprehensible. Anders had to scroll up through a dozen before they stopped being gibberish, and then they were exceedingly normal. Inviting him out, telling him that never mind, it wasn’t a good time, actually, asking if he was in, saying hey, if you get this can you just call me... That was when they became phone calls, which Anders had missed, and three had filled his inbox, and two of those were rufflings and static, and the other — Anders frowned, listening to Dorian’s voice on the other end of the line. 

“Hey, Anders. Don’t worry, I know you’re probably working, and I’m fine. I only — well, it seems I misplaced my wallet and I’m rather stuck in your part of town and I —” A long pause, a heavy breath. “I simply don’t feel too well, you know, and I figure I’ll just... make my way to your place and then…” another pause, and when the voice came back it was choked back, unstable. “Sorry, I know you must think me terribly irresponsible but I need to —  _ kaffas _ .” and then the line went dead. 

Anders rushed home with all the speed that an always-late city bus and his own tired feet could grant him. 

He found Dorian slouched into the hall in front of his apartment. He’d gotten into the building, climbed the stairs, and fallen out of consciousness right in Anders’ doorway. Anders felt himself gasp as a little more fire found itself in his veins, and his heart raced with worry. He stooped over him, a hand to his hot face and an ear for his breathing, and at the cool touch of Anders’ palm he stirred, mumbling and groaning as he opened his eyes. 

“Doctor,” he slurred, stretching his face like he was trying for a smile.

Anders pulled him up, slowly draped him over his bent shoulder, and dragged him inside. Once he had him on the couch he pushed him water, and tried to hold his eye. “Dorian?” he peered forward, one silver eye glinting past and then the other, as Dorian swayed and blinked in his seat. “Dorian, hey — hey, look at me — did you take anything? Dorian, Dor?” 

Dorian’s eyes found his, and then lit up. “ _ Dor _ ” he giggled. Anders had never heard the blighted man  _ giggle _ . “You called me a nickname. It’s cute. Dor.  _ Door _ .” 

“Maker’s breath,” he sighed, hands at his hips as his eyebrows bent in. “Dorian, come on. What were you drinking? Shots? Give me a number.” 

“Hm,” Dorian leaned back, closing his eyes and then swaying again as he lifted a hand to his forehead. “Twelve? No eleven. No twelve, twelve…” he shook his head, “but then…” and it evaporated into mumbling, and Anders had to fight to get his attention again. 

“Fucking twelve?” he breathed, “last time you were falling over yourself at  _ eight _ .” 

Dorian giggled again, “you counted.”

“Someone had to.”

“That’s sweet. You’re sweet. That’s why I called you. Oh! Anders! I just remembered.” his eyes lit on him again, pupils too big, Anders noted, the silver of his irises only a thin, shining band. 

“Yes? What? Did you take something else?”

“Come here, it’s a secret.” slurring and smarmy and smiling; fucking blight and demons, he was on something. Anders sighed, and leaned slightly closer. Dorian tried, and failed, to kiss him. 

“Fucking — Dorian!” 

Dorian frowned. “I don’t understand why you  _ aren’t _ .” then, at his own secret little pun, he giggled again, “fucking Dorian!” Anders stared at him, mouth open. What in the Maker’s name was he  _ on _ ? “Sex!” more laughter, apparently amused by the shocked look still plastered across Anders’ face, “I see how you look at me,” he went on, and on something or not, at  _ that _ Anders’ cheeks flushed crimson, “so why aren’t we?” 

“Because you’re drunk. You should try to throw up.” 

Dorian nodded, a mockery of patient understanding, “mm, tried that. Can’t, see?” he mimed an attempt, and Anders crossed his arms. “Good Tevinter vodka and those magical little, you know…”

Anders crouched again, leaning back in and bracing his shoulders. “What — hey, what?” 

“White — “ he pinched his thumb and forefinger together, then shook his head again, gaze drifting over Anders’ shoulder and wandering away. Anders carefully grasped his shoulders again, and he came back, but to the wrong point. “I’m not always drunk,” he said, “lots of good times for it. And you look at me like that. And I know you fuck, you fuck what’s her name!” 

Anders attempted to steer things back, “what’s white, Dorian, what’s it called?” he started listing names, street drugs and high end party fare, medical products, prescription pills; a lot of things were white. He looked for telling symptoms, but they were all jumbled with the alcohol; warm skin, swaying, the laughter and talking. His eyes wandered, though, moving across the walls as though observing patterns that weren’t there. Only so many white things caused visions. 

“And you’re nice to me,” Dorian went on, “you’re kind to me, so I could — hm” he leaned forward, just gripping Anders’ arm this time, leaning his head into his forehead and closing his eyes, warm breath puffing over Anders’ lips. “Return the favour.” Anders took his shoulders and propped him back up. 

“You don’t have to fuck everyone who’s nice to you,” he said, slowly. Anders stood and took Dorian’s glass to the sink. He filled it, letting the water run from the tap until it was cold, taking just that short moment to breathe. 

“‘Know that,” Dorian was still talking when he returned, “usually don’t.” he took the water, drank some, and almost seemed to stabilize for a moment. “Some people aren’t nice atall...” Then he was gone again, eyes floating up to the ceiling and head moving in a slow circle. 

“Hey, hey,” Anders tried to bring him back again, hands at his shoulders. “What does that mean?” 

“I’m fine, it’s just colours and… moving.” Dorian said, “wasn’t supposed to —” he shook his head out of its rotation, but then fell back, closing his eyes as he muttered through the rest of his sentence, and Anders lost the information forever. He tried to press the water at him again. 

“I’m fine. Not even sick.” Dorian muttered, though he wouldn’t open his eyes. 

“That’s worse, Dorian.” Anders frowned, “I’m going to have to take you to the hospital, get your stomach pumped,” he was never going to leave that place. 

Dorian opened his eyes and did his best to sit up. “No, no hospital.” he was suddenly coherent again, and certain, “they’ll make me stay and I have places to — we have that wedding — and mother can’t — just, let me, let me sleep. Sleep, or…” and he fell back again, muttering and closing his eyes and rubbing his head. 

“Dorian, hey, stay with me, ok? Tell me what you took.” 

“I don’t —” he shook his head, and shrugged deeper into Anders’ couch. 

“Dorian, do you know what you took?” very clear, almost shining, Anders’ voice broke through to him with a breath of something else, something more than his own. 

Dorian shook his head again. “You always take care of me…” he muttered, though he seemed at least half in a dream; a dream with no magic — an alarming lack, now that he felt for it. A mage always has a little, but he was muffled. Barred back. Dorian might have been reckless, but he was not an idiot. There was no way he’d taken something to do that on purpose. “I could,” he was still muttering, and as Anders let out a long, steadying breath, his eyes opened. “You really don’t want me?” 

“That’s not —” and then he was more fire than care, and something in him was annoyed and not sure where to point it, “ _ you should know better _ .” 

Dorian frowned, “‘know better. Do lots of things even though I know better. I didn’t — didn’t mean to, I just needed…” 

Maker forbid he finish a sentence. It was all nonsense again, half words and a drooping head. 

“Needed what, Dor?” Anders tried to be gentler, to keep him talking. 

“Needed to call you to… didn’t want to, wanted you to...needed — Anders, Anders! We should —” 

Why the fuck did he keep trying to  _ kiss  _ him? He barely got there, a brush of clumsy lips and then, as though the drug halted at their contact, a very quick and guilty withdrawal. Anders stared back at him, half outside himself. He looked terribly sad. 

“Listen,” he breathed, finally, “if we were going to do that I’d want you to remember it.” he said, and then, with a deep, centering breath and tensed, outstretched arms, he began to glow. First from his palms, then with another breath it spread to the wrists, hazy blue and brightening by the second. He took another breath, and some of it coloured his eyes. 

“Hold on, this should work,” he breathed, gently, with as much of his voice as was still his. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m going to sober you up,” it should work. Alcohol went through him, it stood to reason that other drugs could too, that he could pull out even the magebane, or whatever else he needed to, and that with some concentration and some help, discard their effects. He just hadn’t ever actually tried it. He let more of the power in himself through, blue light spreading through his arms, glowing brighter and brighter from his eyes. 

Dorian flinched back, and a powerful force of something that couldn’t break out pulsed through him. Anders could feel it in the aftershocks, but the barrier stayed locked into the cage made by whatever was binding his magic down, and dissipated with nothing but the force of unfulfilled effort. “Are you —” Dorian’s eyes shot open with wide panic, and his voice shook, “are you a fucking blood mage?” 

“No,” Anders said, though he sounded much less like Anders, whispered and floating from the corners of the room, “a spirit. Just trust me.” 

Dorian nodded, his eyes still wide, but when Anders' hands grasped his arms, he suddenly reached his own hands up to grip tightly over top. He bent his head into Anders’ chest, and faintly, through a broken gasp, from the very edges of his awareness, Anders heard him whisper, “please.” 

It did work. The alcohol left him easily, evaporating from Dorian’s veins as a faint aura of blue light washed over him, then Anders could see the black barrier of silence swimming through him, and little by little his own magic shone through it, banishing it away. Anders kept a part of himself clamped onto the grip he held on Dorian’s arm, and the hard squeeze of the hand over it, while the rest of him floated through song and blood. 

Then it was over, and Dorian was cleared, and he was empty, panting. He dropped his hands from Dorian’s arms, and tried to open his eyes. 

Everything was white, and he was falling. 

Anders reached back out again, a hand on Dorian’s shoulder, eyes shut, breathing. He couldn’t find the ground. 

“Anders?” 

He opened his eyes, there was Dorian, through the glow. 

“How did I get — Anders, what are you —”

Deep breaths. Counting to four. “I need,” broken, breathing, “just hold onto me, please. Just —” he squeezed himself into Dorian, and with enough pressure to bring the world back, Dorian squeezed back. 

He breathed, he counted to four, he breathed, he whispered it, “one,” breathe, “two,” breathe, “three,” breathe, “four,” and back again. He let go. 

Dorian was awake and sober and staring at him with questions and concern written all over his face. Anders sat back, falling uncomfortably onto his backside on the floor, his legs out long. “are you ok?” he asked in a breathless rasp. 

“Am I —” Dorian shook his head, “are you?” He stood up, stable, and then he reached out a hand to Anders, and helped him onto the couch. 

“Do you remember,” Anders tried the question one more time, a sober Dorian next to him as his chest heaved itself up and down, soaked with sweat, and his own eyes refused to remain open, “what happened?” 

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dorian shaking his head. “I called you. Something was…” brows furrowed, but just another head shake “— I’m sorry,” his head turned, but Anders closed his eyes to whatever else he was trying to say. 

——

When he woke, Dorian was gone. He’d left a note, and what seemed like every single item on the menu from Marc’s. 

“Anders, I’m sorry. Thank you. Call me, please.” what looked like another apology was scribbled out, under that. 

Anders found his phone still in his pocket, and pulled it out to one new message. 

“I had to go I — I’d understand if you never wanted to speak to me again, but I hope you’ll accept my apologies for last night. I don’t — I’m sketchy on the details, but evidently you’ve been more kind than I’ve a right to and — thank you. If you’ll call I can try to explain, and I hope that you will…” Anders waited, his own breath held as the recording of Dorian took one for himself, “I hope you’ll call.” 

He called. 

Dorian didn’t answer. He texted back with a time, and another apology, and Anders agreed to it. Then he waited. He picked at the food Dorian had left in his chaotic wake, and he fed his cat. He sat on the couch, and stared at his hands. Ordinary, pale-skinned, and flecked with a few short scars and freckles, always a little cold at the fingertips, not glowing. He thought again about the weight of Dorian’s over them, grimaced, and scrubbed one unhappily over the stubble on his chin. That hadn’t been what he’d meant, all those times he’d wanted to hold him. 

“Dorian, what happened to you, where are you I —” 

“I had a meeting. Terribly dull —”

“You’re working?” 

“Anders, are you alright? You passed out, I don’t remember what you did but it must have taken everything out of you, and I can’t — I can’t possibly repay you for that but —”

“Repay me?” Anders brows bent down in a pinch, “Dorian, I just want to know what happened to you. Did someone — are you in trouble?”

There was a pause before the reply. Too long a pause. “No,” he said eventually, “just done in by my own recklessness. It won’t happen again; really. I shouldn’t have…” he paused again.

“Your magic, Dorian, what in the world did that —” 

“Can you come over later?” Dorian interrupted, “we might talk easier.” he said. Anders frowned, and then, hopelessly deep into his habit of agreeing to things with Dorian, he asked for a time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all I can say for myself at this point is that I've been meaning to write something with Veronica Mars vibes for a while now and this au is very quickly going there. If you're worried about the reckless mess that is Dorian Pavus at this point, please just know that I never take these themes lightly. Stay tuned ;)


End file.
